An International Affair
by Happy123
Summary: Prince Arthur Kirkland, heir to the British crown, is pushed into a world in which way too many people try to kill him when he stumbles across a certain annoying American.
1. Chapter 1

Title: An International Affair  
Genre: Humor, Romance, Adventure/Action, AU  
Pairing(s): AmericaxEngland (for this chapter)  
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 (mostly for fight scenes, probably)  
Summary: Prince Arthur Kirkland, heir to the British crown, is pushed into a world in which way too many people try to kill him when he stumbles across a certain annoying American.  
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or the lyrics to the "Kung-Fu Fighting" song

**Chapter One**

His Royal Highness Arthur Kirkland, Prince of Wales, walked around the same signpost for the third time before he admitted there might be a possibility that he was lost.

It wasn't as if he had a bad sense of direction – oh no; in fact, finding his way around the palace and into its many nooks and crannies was one of the many talents that Arthur had mastered at the age of five, much to the consternation of his bodyguards.

And it wasn't as if Arthur didn't have a sense of responsibility (although dodging his black-suited babysitters might have admittedly been a lapse of judgment). On the contrary, his grandmother, Her Royal Majesty The Queen, had remarked on several occasions that his bearing and countenance were quite mature for his age.

(Peter had called him a stuffy old closet, but who else besides trashy newspapers cared what younger brothers thought anyways? Arthur shuddered. The last headlines about a royal brotherly splat were still fresh enough to smart.)

It was with this same air of dignity that Arthur paused momentarily in the middle of the busy street, tilted his cap to hide his ever prominent royal eyebrows, and hurried on in a direction he was _almost_ certain was west (there were still a few rays of sunlight peeking from that corner of the sky).

He advanced half a block before he slammed into something warm and solid in front of him. Hastily adjusting his cap, Arthur muttered out a polite, "Excuse me," and shifted towards the left to pass the man by.

A large, calloused hand abruptly dragged Arthur back with enough force to make him stumble. "And where do you think you're going, you fucker?" the red-faced punk snarled, flecks of spittle flying out of his mouth.

After executing a swift kick to his capturer's nether regions that would have made his cousin Elizabeta proud, the prince ran for it.

The sounds of pounding footsteps shattered the quiet of the deserted streets. Arthur's breaths came out in hasty snatched puffs of air as he skidded around the nearby corner, his hand clutching a snitch in his side as he cursed the lack of alleyway escapades in his training as heir to the kingdom. If (no, _when_) he got back to the palace he would have Ivan set up a regimen of push-ups and pulleys and…

A wall loomed up ahead of the panting prince. _Oh bollocks._

_And pull-ups_, Arthur grimly noted as he grasped at the worn-out bricks of the stupid wall, wincing as the rough surface scratched his hands. _This could make embroidering hell for the next few weeks…_

Scrabbling frantically at the next brick, Arthur had just managed to hoist himself up another half meter before a fist slammed into his back. Arthur crumpled to the ground, an involuntary hiss of pain escaping his lips. He had barely managed to regain his breath when a hand wrinkled his shirt, wrenching him upwards towards the twisted features of one of his pursuers. The beady eyes feasted greedily on the trickle of red running down the prince's left cheek. "You wanna scream now, you pans – "

A jeans-clad leg vaulted over the wall and smashed into the lout's face.

Arthur blinked.

"Nu fuker!" Arthur's attacker screamed, clutching his broken nose.

His shout broke the short reverie that had fallen over the rest of the gang. They surged forward in a confused rabble, driving towards the tall, blond man who stood between them and their target.

"Hell yeah! Come on and get a piece of this!" he shouted, waving his fist at them with reckless abandon.

Americans. Arthur snorted, stumbling to his feet and wincing at the all too familiar accent. Of course his would-be rescuer had to be some Hollywood-obsessed American with some fantasy of becoming the next indecently clad superhero sporting another one of those ridiculous monikers.

Still, two instead of one against ten _were_ better odds.

Metal flashed in the corner Arthur's sight. "Watch out, you bloody wanker!" the Brit shouted, cap slipping off his head as he reached out a hand in a desperate plea to halt the descending blade as it cut through the air towards the American –

Who wasn't there anymore because he had suddenly transported himself (there was no other explanation; no one excepting Natalia and Ivan had ever moved that fast before) and then a blur of bodies before a bald-headed ruffian was lying on the ground, howling, clutching his wrist in pain.

Arthur gaped at the American, who flashed a bright grin (the very cheek!) at the prince. A distant part of him (that wasn't on overdrive) noted that the taller man had begun to loudly and obnoxiously belt out, "_Everybody was kung-fu fighting_" – his hand jabbed at the inner elbow of an oncoming assailant – "_Those cats were fast as lightning_" – another one of his transportation tricks – "_In fact it was a little bit fright'ning_" – he hurled his body around, feet spinning out to catch the back of a knee – "_But they fought with expert timing!_" – and the side of a face, its mouth opening in a half-surprised snarl – "_They were funky China men from funky Chinatown_" – the last remaining assailant fumbled for his right pocket – "_They were chopping them up_" – A fist shot out under his stomach – "_and they were chopping them down_" – and slammed down on the man's back. A battered gun fell out, clattering onto the ground. It skidded towards Arthur, coming to rest a few centimeters from his feet.

Pumping up his fist in time to the beat of the music, the American loped towards the prince, skidding to a stop before him, still with that off-key screeching – "_It's an ancient Chinese art and everybody knew their part_" – he shot a foot forward and twisted it a little – "_From a feint into a slip_," – popping the gun into his hand – "_and kicking from the hip!_"

Spreading his arms out wide in a flourish, he beamed at the Brit.

Scratch that. Arthur had apparently been saved by some loony-bin nut-job.

The blond-haired man stuck his hand out towards the prince, grinning, "Oh man, I was so awesome, wasn't I?"

What? Oh yes, he should probably... Clearing his throat, Arthur gingerly accepted the proffered hand, wincing as the overgrown man pumped it up and down energetically. "Ah, Mr….?"

"Oh yeah! Alfred! Alfred F. Jones!" the American shouted into Arthur's ear.

"…Mr. Jones. Err… I thank you for your assistance, Mr. Jones. You may call me (the prince debated giving him a false name but decided that it was too much of a bother. Besides, there were probably loads of people with his name) Arthur."

"ASSISTANCE? Oh come on," The Ameri – Alfred slapped Arthur's back, grinning (the Brit stumbled forward a few steps), "don't be such a stiff, old man! I totally rescued your ass back there!"

"Arse!"

Alfred blinked, his victory dance halted in mid-jump, "Wha…"

Arthur felt his cheeks heating up, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from spluttering, "Arse, you bloody wanker! Your – my – your arse! At least use proper English, you – you – "

The Brit took a few deep breaths. Foul-mouthed as the American was, he had sav– assisted Arthur, and yelling at him was rather discourteous.

No matter how much the tone-deaf lout deserved it.

Stiffly. "I apologize for my conduct, Mr. Jones."

The American grinned, a long lock of hair swinging wildly across forehead as he resumed bouncing around excitedly, "Nah, don't worry! Probably just a little shaken, huh?" His eyes flashed a blinding shade of bright blue. Arthur felt his cheeks grow red again. _Stupid weather, getting him out of sorts today…_

Distracted by his laughable attempts at reasoning, he was barely able to hold back a squeak when an arm snaked around him, pulling him towards a very well-muscled body. "Let's go get something hot to warm you up!"

Arthur struggled for a few minutes before giving up. It was warmer like that, anyways, he decided.

-HETALIA-

What a typical American. Arthur mentally rolled his eyes as he watched his companion practically inhale (and choke on) the monstrous cup of dark liquid in front of him.

Sighing softly, Arthur curled his hands around his own smaller cup of coffee. If he had the choice, he would have gotten a nice cup of tea, but having forgotten his own wallet in his haste to get out of the palace, it was only acceptable that he accompany the person paying for the drinks to their choice of venue, no matter how detestable it was or so small that they only offered the bitter brew at this shop.

Starbucks indeed. The one time you were relying on Americans to go for the largest alternative possible and they decided to...Never mind. He brushed a hand through his hair absentmindedly. Now he just needed a way to contact Ivan discreetly so he could get –

Oh fuck.

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. He was so fucked. How could he have forgotten? A sharp flare of panic rose in his throat as he hastily tried to flatten his bangs in front of his eyebrows. If Alfred – or anyone in the shop for the matter – caught sight of them, there would be a riot. He could already picture the headlines: "Good Prince Gone Bad!" or even more humiliating: "Arthur Absconds with American!"

Ivan was going to kill him. Or even worse, Elizabeta would most definitely blackmail him to pose for unprintable camera shots (Arthur would never, ever drink again, especially near his grandmother's old angel costume. Giving the Countess this much blackmail material was not conducive to his health or image).

"Hey, Arthur."

Arthur refused to look directly at him. At least this way he could keep his dignity, and any stray photographers wouldn't be able to get a good shot of them together. But how far would it be for them to get in the right angle – oh fuck it, he was doomed anyways, so what the hell – Arthur looked up.

Alfred was directing a sympathetic glance towards him. _Bloody hell, how was he going to –_ "Did they have a bad hair day?" The blond man patted his hand.

"Pardon?"

"Your eyebrows, man! They look like a bunch of caterpillars crawled up and ate –"

Arthur threw his still steaming cup at the tosser.

-HETALIA-

Wrenching open the door, Arthur stomped out into the cold. _That stupid, idiotic–_

A hand gripped his arm, painfully. He whirled around snarling, "Wha-aaaaaiiiiiiiiii…."

His shout trailed off into a (dignified) squeak. A silver-haired girl stared back at him stonily, her grip not lessening a bit where it dug into his arm.

"Err…Natalia, I –"

"Brother was worried."

Arthur blanched. Without another word, the shorter girl began to tow the prince towards a car waiting discretely by the roadside.

As he stumbled after his bodyguard, Arthur shoved his free arm into his coat. Hopefully that hand wouldn't freeze to death; his left arm was already doomed to a relentless loss of circulation courtesy of Natalia.

Arthur frowned as his fingers scraped over a smooth, thick surface. Shifting slightly, Arthur managed to ply it out just as Natalia shoved him with a glaring lack of gentleness into the car.

It was the coffee cup that he had emptied over a certain uncouth American. Grimacing slightly (really, no matter how high dry cleaning bills were these days, how childish was it to slip a used cup into his coat just to get back at him?), the prince was just about to toss it into the plastic bag stowed under his seat when a smear of ink caught his eye. Twisting the cup towards his face, Arthur peered into the inside to read the untidy scrawl of words scratched out on the bottom:

_Alfred F. Jones  
__398-395-4937 ;)_


	2. Chapter 2

Title: An International Affair  
Author/Artist: Theos99  
Genre: Humor, Romance, Adventure/Action, AU  
Pairing(s): AmericaxEngland, AustriaxHungary (n.b. I only listed the obvious ones; you can take all other pairings as romantic or platonic)  
Rating/Warnings: T  
Summary: Prince Arthur Kirkland, heir to the British crown, is pushed into a world in which way too many people try to kill him when he stumbles across a certain annoying American.  
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.  
Author's Notes: Taiwan = Huang Rong (n.b. "Rong" is her first name, and cookies to anyone who can guess where Taiwan's name came from! *hint* Asian drama ^_^). Should have also noted this before, but all characters are the ages they appear to be in the official series (e.g. Arthur is 23, Alfred is 19, etc.). Sorry for lateness! Wrote a little before losing my muse (but luckily watching Lady Gaga live on Youtube revived her )

**Chapter Two**

_Deserted warehouse, London  
__2:39 AM_

A police car sped past, blaring sirens piercing through the darkness.

The sudden light snapped over a slight figure slipping into a nearby building, whipping across pale skin, illuminating the faint smudges above his cheekbones. His dark brown eyes were discernibly Asiatic.

_Kuso_.

The man quickened his pace, a thin line creasing his forehead as he picked his way across the scattered debris, eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. If _they_ had seen him here…Stop. Focus.

Veering abruptly to his left, Kiku Honda stepped over the threshold of an open doorway. Its hinges, rusted with time, still bore traces of a wooden door that had been ripped off violently – a relic from the international bloodbath that had erupted when news of Roma Vargas' assassination hit the streets five years ago.

The dark blotches near the boarded-up window shifted.

Sporting a pair of ripped, taped jeans and a faded shirt that proclaimed, "Anarcny in thc U.K," Rong Huang met his gaze evenly, mouth twitching…Kiku accepted the thin sheaf of paper neatly stapled at its upper right hand corner. Information was scarce; their pool of informants had drained rapidly now that the few remaining pockets of resistance against the newly anointed Vargas Don crumbled. Oh, no – Lovino Vargas was quite a formidable foe when one cared to look beyond his deceptively child-like face. The paper crinkled (too many agents had already – ).

No matter. He would not allow anything to obstruct their goal, not when they were so close… Kiku scanned the contents of the report, painstakingly handwritten in their personal code. His gaze focused, intent.

_A39iL_

9.15

September fifteenth. At his swift glance upwards, his partner flicked her eyes at the door.

_He's on to us._

They were going to be heavily in the disadvantage if the plan had to go forward now – nearly two weeks ahead of schedule – but if it couldn't be helped…

_Still_, Kiku mused, rubbing a hand absentmindedly at the grit clinging in his eyes, _I wish it didn't have to turn out this way, Alfred_.

-HETALIA-

_Clarence House*, London  
__Around midday_

The official study of the Prince of Wales was rather impressive. Any visitors entering the room would immediately be confronted by furniture so well-polished that glimpsing one's reflection was really a quite feasible notion.

But in spite of its intimidating veneer, the room still held an air of domesticity. The desk, while in spectacular condition, was well-worn, and the elegantly embroidered pillows (several of which sported an intriguing pattern of unicorns) scattered around the various upholstery gave off a warm, welcoming feeling.

Today the study appeared especially enticing. Soft, wistful notes (1) floated gently through the air from the grand piano, the acoustics of the room transforming the already lovely piece of music into something fantastical. In fact, one could most understandably assume that the Prince of Wales, though forbidden to toe one step outside of the House ever since his latest escapades, was enjoying a relaxing, peaceful morning.

Of course, one would also have to ignore the other new addition to the room.

"Alright, spill," the Countess Elizabeta Hedervary-Edelstein grinned, dangling a rather battered looking paper cup in front of the heir-apparent's face, whose increasingly unsubtle attempts to retrieve it brought him closer towards tipping over his chair.

"You already know what happened!"

Elizabeta nimbly danced out of Arthur's reaching fingers, "But I want to know what else happened! Your account was so uninspiring (here her eyes took on a particular glint that made Arthur cringe): _We had coffee afterwards_. Come on, you have to give me _something_! Did you drool over his abs? Was he a good shag?" Waving a finger at Arthur's slowly reddening face, his cousin intoned mockingly, "It's all for your own good."

Sometimes Arthur wished that his grandmother didn't know everything (although by virtue of the fact that she paid Ivan's paycheck this was probably just another pipe dream). But she could have done something other than calling his meddlesome cousin over to "look after him" while she was at bloody Balmoral (2)!

"Bleeding hell! We just had a cup of coffee!" Arthur shouted, mentally plotting how best to dump Peter into the nearest rubbish bin (Make sense? No? Whatever. It would make him feel better, anyways. _Oh god, don't think about the headlines, don't think_).

The accursed cup was waved in front of him tauntingly, "Then what is this?"

Feeling his cheeks redden (blasted genetics), Arthur hoisted his chair back into a less precarious position, snatching the first useless folder of paperwork from its teetering stack. _Focus, focus…now, when should he schedule that charity trip…_

Quiet.

Arthur risked a peek upwards.

And widened his eyes in horror as the countess reached into her handbag to pull out a rather familiar set of photographs. _Oh bloody hell were those…_

Scattering the paperwork in a forgotten pile around his desk, Arthur attempted to banish the Dangers of Alcohol and Old Costumes from his mind, hissing, "Fine, I'll call him but for the love of God put those away!"

As his cousin obligingly held the cup in front of him, Arthur punched the numbers into his mobile. Two rings, then:

"Hello?"

Arthur cleared his throat. "Hello, Mr. – Alfred? This is Arthur. From – before. The coffee cup. I mean, last night – "

"Give me that!"

Thump. "No! Elizabeta what are you – "

"Hello, is this Alfred of the Amazing Abs? This is Elizabeta, Arthur's cousin."

Mournful notes (2) emerged sympathetically from the far corner.

A pause. "Really?"

"How about seven? Tonight?"

Squealing. "Of course!"

Elizabeta giggled, snapping the phone shut. "He's so cute!" She tapped her chin with an index finger and turned to critically examine Arthur, who was attempting to asphyxiate himself with a pillow, "but we'll have to get you ready."

"Now? But it's barely half past!"

" – let's see…We'll need a…" Elizabeta continued over her cousin's protests, halting only briefly in her (shopping?) fantasy to snag Arthur's arm and tow him towards the doorway.

"Wait! Who is "we?" I never agreed to – "

"Oh sweetie, I didn't mean you! We're going to see Feliks, of course! That man is such a wonder with clothes..."

-HETALIA-

_Clarence House, London  
__6:55 PM_

Feliks and Elizabeta had really outdone themselves.

The small room in a rarely-used wing of the House had been done up tastefully with a blend of artificial and candle light, with enough of the latter to lend the rigid crispness of the white tablecloth an inviting softness. Apart from the single attendant who stood unobtrusively against the wall with orders to serve dinner and then depart, leaving the two to their own devices, the atmosphere of the room was casual. It was a welcome surprise.

_Still._ Arthur tugged at his shirt, scowling slightly at the unfamiliar tight pull of cloth against his skin. Why those two had gotten the idea to dress him in this ensemble of – he attempted to pull his shirt down further – a flash of skin, gritted teeth. It was practically indecent –

A knock.

He fumbled with the knob, feeling a blush rise (though why Peter never inherited these bloody genes he would never know), and yanked it open.

Alfred stood in the doorway. _Hands in his pockets_, Arthur distantly noted, _Americans were always so atrocious with their manners_…the taller man still had jeans on, but they hugged his rather well-defined legs far more closely than before – of course! During the fight, how otherwise could he move those – _never mind_ – a loose, buttoned white collar shirt with a black jacket over it…hair smoothed down, though that lock of hair still defied gravity –

"Like what you see?"

"Wha – " A hand clutched Arthur's shoulder before he could make more of an ass out of himself.

"Excuse me, Mr. Jones," the Russian smiled, gently tightening his grip, "but I need to speak with His Highness for a moment."

Alfred blinked.

"It shouldn't be too long. I apologize for interrupting you – "

The American waved away his words, "Don't worry!" He plopped himself into one of the chairs, grinning, "I'll just wait here!" He winked at Arthur.

Arthur turned towards his bodyguard, who closed the door behind them, "Ivan, what is this – "

Who was suddenly barely a foot away from his face.

"Arthur should be careful, daa?"

"Wha-what do you mean?" _Oh gods, he was twisting _that_ pipe_ –

"Mr. Jones…is very strong, yes?"

"Ivan, he's hardly going to," Arthur fumbled for words, hands weaving through each other.

He glanced up; Ivan stared at him, eyes open with some unreadable emotion – "Ivan?" – they snapped shut into their customary half-circles.

A hand rested on Arthur's shoulder, "Daa, I'll be just down that hallway just in case~"

The large man strode down the corridor, humming an old Russian lullaby softly to himself. Arthur stared after him for a full minute before shaking himself; he had a guest to tend to. As he strode towards the door, the Russian's words trickled through his mind – yes, Alfred was strong, and Arthur readily admitted that the odds of fighting him off were rather slim, but really, what kind of man who sang "Kung Fu Fighting" while punching out a street gang (off-key, no less!) – his lips twitched – would ever –

"-orrying, Mattie!"

His hand stopped a few centimeters from the handle. The voice continued, exasperated, "Come on! He's not going to do anything to me, you kn-"

"…yes. Yes, I know." A sigh. "I'll try to – I'll be back by ten. I know, I know, yes – "

Alfred flashed a beaming smile at Arthur as the door clicked open, shoving a mobile phone into his back pocket. Arthur took his seat. The server had already placed two steaming plates of roast lamb in front of them. Good service, he noted, he would have to commend them for that. A small noise, Arthur looked up – oh yes – they had better –

Arthur said Grace. As they dug into the meal, Alfred mumbled, "oo ow ee eneezmenna?"

"I beg your pardon?"

He swallowed. "How is Elizabeta? Your cousin?"

"Quite well," his knife sliced cleanly through the meat, "Why do you inquire, if may I ask?"

"She gave me this."

A crinkling noise. Arthur looked up to see Alfred pulling a small plastic bag out of his coat pocket, which contained a tube of something and a few packets that…resembled a –

Arthur snatched the condoms from a silently shaking Alfred, two reddish splotches reappearing in his cheeks, and wished fervently for two things: (1) that the ground would swallow him up, and (2) that Elizabeta hadn't installed hidden cameras somewhere in the room (dammit, he should have checked!).

The table stopped rattling. "Guess she thought that we should be prepared for anything, huh?" That was one way to put it – with the variety of…_things_ in there –

"I apologize for my cousin's behavior. It was crude and – "

"Nah," the American grinned, taking a swig of wine from his glass, "Don't worry!"

"Still…" Dinner was utterly ruined. He would just have to take solace in returning to those plans with Peter and the nearest rubbish bin again –

Arthur jerked slightly in his seat as a hand reached out to pat his fingers. "She's just worried, you know!" Alfred continued, smiling softly at him.

"And a fine way to show it – "

"Mattie does that too."

Arthur snapped his mouth shut. The American continued, eyes closing slightly, smile growing smaller and wistful, "Just last week, when I was in a bad mood, he served me pancakes for lunch. You know, with maple syrup drizzled all over it? I mean – for _lunch_? No hamburgers around, with him being all not-American and shi- stuff." He tightened his grip as Arthur tried to withdraw his hand. "But he's still a great guy. Has to be, ya know, being my bro and all!"

Suddenly tipping his chair back, Alfred reached over to take Arthur's other hand, stepping backwards, his eyes and face bright with a smile – "Come on, let's go look at the stars!"

They ended up two rooms away, sitting near a large patio window – close enough to have a good look out the glass but far enough away so any stray paparazzi couldn't spot them (getting the attention-drawing American into the House had been a difficult job to say the least; spoiling it now would be rather a waste).

Alfred settled an arm around Arthur. "This might sound kinda weird, but when I was younger, I wanted to be an astronaut."

Arthur could imagine that – Alfred giving the world a jaunty wave from the moon through the telly – "Why didn't you?"

He laughed. It was comfortable, and Arthur felt himself leaning closer towards his warmth. "I mean, I could still try out, but where I'm now is just fine, and I'd never had time to travel the 'round globe before, anyways!"

"What do you do now?"

"I'm a business representative." He gestured meaninglessly with his free arm. "My boss tells me where I need to meet a client to talk about our next project, and, well..." Shrugging, he twisted around to look at the figure huddled against him. "How about you? If you weren't a prince, what would you be doing out there? You know, I always pegged you for one of those soccer players, maybe – "

"A writer."

Arthur waited for Alfred to interrupt, but the American was quiet. The Briton glanced up to see the taller man gazing back at him patiently (his formidable eyebrows rose – Alfred's lips twitched up a little at that, but Arthur ignored the movement – he had thought that the loud man would be incapable of doing such). He looked away. Took a slow, deep breath – never had said this out-loud before, not even to his grandmother – he was the prince and duty always came first –

"I wanted to be a writer. I've always enjoyed penning whatever stories came into my mind." It was exhaustive but satisfying, letting out his emotions like that…

"Why don't you?"

Arthur roused himself from his stupor. "What?"

"I said, why don't – "

"I heard you, but politics, and my job." It would never be possible. Another pipe dream. Books were always controversial, and his life was nothing but for the public.

"How about using a disguise? Like a pseudo – you know, those fake names?"

"Pseudonyms."

"Yeah, that. I mean, you could totally – " Arthur had never actually considered anything beyond "no, it couldn't be that way"…Glancing back at his companion, who was digging in his back pocket – his phone? Arthur flushed; to think he could become so tightly wound up by a stranger who turned out to be Alfred's own brother –

"Here!" A hard, metallic object roughly the size of his palm – no, not a phone – a watch? Yes – a pocket-watch, with an old and respectable appearance, rather unlike its owner…

Alfred snapped it open, leaning over to show it to Arthur. It had been lovingly cared for, polished, and was ticking solemnly away. The British man squinted. What were those words…no – numbers.

_12/9_

A date. But why…?

"It's a promise I made to myself." Arthur glanced at the American, who was looking directly back at him, "I made it when I was ten – back when my parents divorced." Courtesy, courtesy – Alfred's blue, blue gaze halted any offering of sympathies. "To my brother, before we were taken in by different foster families, that even with me in America and him way off in that area up north, that we would each carry out our dreams. No matter what." He carefully closed Arthur's fingers around it. "For you."

"I couldn't possibly accept – "

"Think of it as a loan, then. You can give it back once you've published your first book."

"I – Thank you." Arthur gently closed its lid. Towards his left, the clock mounted on the wall struck ten.

Alfred shook himself, smile appearing back on his face. "Ten already? I hafta…"

"Yes," Arthur fumbled with his hands, rising from the ground along with his companion, "It is rather late. I'll call Ivan to help you with…" He winced, reminded of the procedures Alfred had to take to get out of the House. Maybe – if he still wanted to – they might go somewhere less aggravating next time...

"I forgot something."

"Hmm?" Oh, yes – Alfred's coat was still hanging in the room where they had dinner – he'd go get it, with it being just a few rooms away. He turned to step around the American, but the taller man tugged him nearer – "What are you do-"

Soft pressure on his mouth.

Alfred released him (he must have imagined the fleeting gentle expression because the blinding grin the American was currently sporting wiped anything else off his brain), "My goodnight kiss, of course!"

Ah.

A low, polite, "Natalia would be more than eager to accompany you back to your hotel, Mr. Jones." – "Nah, it's okay! The taxi's fine, and it's not too far from the place where I got dropped off earlier" – a hand reaching out to take the proffered coat, turning back for – "See you later, Arthur!" – the door shut.

Arthur touched his lips.

-END NOTES-

*Clarence House is a royal residence of the British monarchy located in London. It is the official working residence of the current Prince of Wales. The ground floor is open to tourism during the summer.

**Balmoral Castle is a British royal residence in Scotland. It is usually occupied during the summer months of August and September, and is the private residence of the Queen.

(1) Sonata No. 15 "Pastoral" by Ludwig van Beethoven, 1st Movement – Allegro; written at a time when Beethoven was starting to go through angst for his deafness but the piece itself is known for its quiet tranquility

(2) Sonata No. 8 in c minor "Sonata Pathetique" by Ludwig van Beethoven, 1st Movement; known (as the title suggests) for its sad tone

[And yes, I do watch too much FMA.]


	3. Chapter 3

Title: An International Affair  
Author/Artist: Theos99  
Genre: Romance, Adventure/Action, AU  
Pairing(s): AmericaxEngland  
Rating/Warnings: T  
Summary: Prince Arthur Kirkland, heir to the British crown, is pushed into a world in which way too many people try to kill him when he stumbles across a certain annoying American.  
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.  
Author's Notes: Charlie and Ethel are OC's (and not nations). Hopefully updates will come faster now that some craziness with school has finished...

**Chapter Three**

_The Soho Hotel*, London  
__10:42 PM_

It was a chilly night.

Charlie Evans dug his hands deeper into the woolen pockets of his long coat, resisting the urge to escape back into Soho's well-heated halls. Mindful of guests, he directed a glare up at the ridiculously large bronze cat preening in the lobby. The nerve of it, basking in that expensive warmth while a fine gent like him had to stand outside in this blasted weather! He rubbed his fingers together. He had half a mind to quit and just be done with this nonsense…!

But the pay here was nothing to sneeze at, and with Ethel moving in in a few months – well – he would take whatever extra there was to be had, no matter what sort of tomfoolery he had to put up with.

Knuckled-headed gits, the whole lot of them! Charlie snorted contemptuously. He'd be blasted if any of those dimwits had a lick of sense, cavorting around –

Footsteps thudded across the courtyard.

Turning back towards the street, the doorman peered beyond a meticulously cut shrub. As he caught sight of a golden head of hair, with a familiar lock flopping about, making its way towards him, Charlie broke into a grin. "Mr. Jones!" he called out, ignoring the disapproving stares that his raised voice drew.

"Hey, Charlie!" Alfred beamed, waving back as he bounced to a stop before the glass doors, "Did Ethel arrive yet?"

Charlie laughed at the boy's honest enthusiasm. "She'll be here soon." Lovely, lovely Ethel…he cleared his throat. "But enough about me. So, you young scoundrel, how was the lucky girl?" Charlie inquired, slipping a sly smirk across to the American, "Win her over with that charm of yours, boy?"

Alfred reddened and laughed, rubbing his head shyly, "I hope so…"

Ah, Charlie smiled, young love...a vision of a dappled, moonlit path, a lovely girl by his side…he shook his head. Drawing back the door with a practiced flourish, he ushered the younger man towards the lobby equipped with all the wonders of modern heating.

"Good-night, Mr. Jones. Better rest up so you can impress her next time."

"Aw, thanks, Charlie! And how many times do I have to tell you, it's just 'Alfred'!" He waved back at the doorman before jogging towards the elevators.

Charlie closed the door, a faint smile lingering on his face as he heard a lilting tune emerge from the same direction the American had headed. Couldn't hold a tune to save his life, but what a good lad! His simple, good-hearted nature was so refreshing in a place such as this…

-HETALIA-

The elevator doors opened. Still whistling, Alfred F. Jones strode out, hands in his pockets. He winked at a middle-aged businessman and his noticeably younger companion. While the former shot him a scandalized glare, the latter covered her mouth with a gloved hand, stifling a small smile.

As Alfred passed them, she winked back before gently guiding the spluttering man down the hallway.

Alfred grinned, loping lazily towards his room. He paused at his door, digging into his right pocket for his key – the old fashioned metal kind, of course. He rolled his eyes. Why did all British people have to be so stuffy? Except a certain prince; he had been sure that he would be shoved away, but Arthur had pulled him closer and…a smile broke out on his face.

He opened the door and stepped into his room. This trip had proved to be far more enjoyable than he had – _the newspaper hadn't been on the doormat_

Every sense sprung to alertness, scanning the area around him –

_There was someone in the living room_.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Shit! How could he have crapped up on one of the most basic lessons of his training? Gilbert would kill him if he survived this. His body propelled itself backwards; the hallway was too narrow, no escape routes except the door – the door had been locked, _it was locked and he couldn't get out _–

_Hey little boy, isn't it past your bedtime?_

No

_How naughty, naughty, naughty. Cold hands wrenching his chin out. Too bad for you your daddy wouldn't cough it up when we asked him so nicely_

Shut up!

_Someone screaming – Mattie, Mattie_

His gun slid out in one smooth motion as Alfred threw himself forward towards the living room, slamming through the door. A blur from the couch –

Alfred slammed the intruder against the wall. _Alfred_ He shoved the gun at his neck _Alfred!_ They wouldn't, they couldn't win this time _ALFRED!_ Hands stilling, Alfred blinked away the red haze obscuring his vision. A set of eyes identical to his own except for their darker, violet hue, blond strands of hair, a long, curling lock trailing down a familiar face…

"Alfred, you can put that down now," Matt said gently, reaching out a hand tentatively towards the gun pointed to his – to his –

Alfred thrust himself away from the wall, rubbing at his eyes roughly. He tore his coat off, throwing it on a table nearby, and strode off towards the coffee maker he had requested a few days ago from the front desk.

"You're late." Matt shuffled his feet, twisting his hands. "I thought we had agreed to meet at ten – Alfred!" His voice rose in volume. "What were you thinking, sneaking out to gods-knows-where for a date?" _Do you know how worried I was?_

Silence.

His voice was too loud for the small room. He lowered it and stepped carefully towards his brother, "Alfred, the Boss wants us to close the deal with Sadiq soon. He thinks we might have a few agents on our tail. We'll have to start pushing him to set up a meeting place as soon as – "

"Is he going to eliminate them?" His voice was flat and emotionless.

Matthew hesitated. He spoke slowly, turning the matter over in his mind, fumbling for words, "I'm not sure. I think he's definitely considering it, but even if he wants to, he can't – not yet – "

"Then we'll start tomorrow." Alfred pushed himself away from the counter and strode off to his bedroom.

Matthew sighed. He hated having to ruin the few moments of fun that his brother managed to snatch for himself, but their boss had been increasingly insistent that they move forward, _now_. Leaning over, he picked up the coat his brother had discarded, draping it over his arm to hang up.

It was too light.

Reaching into the hidden pocket sewn between the lining near the beast pocket, Matthew felt around. Nothing. A wave of panic hit him. The watch had meant everything to Alfred; if he knew he had lost it –

"I gave it to my date."

Matthew shot an incredulous look at his brother, who was lounging against the doorframe between the two rooms. "You gave away _Pa – your watch_ to someone you barely know? Why would you – "

Alfred looked away.

Oh.

He glanced at his brother's stiff posture and focused his gaze downwards, busying himself with the books on the table.

"Matthew." Alfred's voice was quiet, hoarse.

He looked up. His brother was staring directly back at him, his face lined and tired beyond his years. "I promised us."

It had a note of finality, of acquiescence.

"I promised." A whisper.

-HETALIA-

_Buckingham Palace  
__A few days later_

Arthur sighed deeply, letting his head to fall on his desk.

It smacked against the wood with a muffled thud. Cursing faintly, he rubbed at the sore spot, glaring at the paperwork piled around him. While he didn't actually have to finish all of these documents by the end of his stay here, it afforded him some respite from the constant pestering and teasing Elizabeta and Peter dished out (the former with disturbing single-mindedness, the latter with gleeful malice).

Honestly. It was just one date! Even if they had…kissed…it was not as if they had been proposing to have their wedding in a few months (which completely trumped his cousin's need to construct rather detailed wedding dinner arrangements). He huffed in indignation. It was completely, utterly ridiculous! As if he would ever succumb to someone that quickly, even one as attractive as Alfred _could_ be – at times…_sometimes_

His mobile vibrated. Snatching it up, Arthur flipped it open.

_Hey, babe! Wazz up?_

One formidable eyebrow twitched.

_Nothing much out of the ordinary. And could you please refrain from using such an absurd nickname?_

_Aww, Iggy! ;_;_

…_well? Is there something that you wanted to ask me?_

_Nah. Just wanted to say hi :)_

Arthur felt a smile tug at the edge of his lips. He smothered it, then glanced back at the screen as it vibrated again.

_Wanna hang out sometime?_

Well, seeing as he had finished most of his work….his phone buzzed again (Christ – how fast could that man type – )

_R u free tom? U pick time and place :) :) :)_

_D'abrazzo's Diner. Be there at noon. Sharp._

_Can't wait to c u there, doll-face! ;)_

Arthur let his now blazingly red face hit the desk again.

-END NOTES-

*The Soho Hotel is an upscale hotel in London and a favorite with business trips. The appearance of it was based off pictures from this: http : / www . firmdale . com / index . php?page_id=7. Some details were made up.


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